


Bodies

by elisetales



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Colterons, M/M, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisetales/pseuds/elisetales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally faced with the enemy, Abel and Cain learn what it means to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There may or may not be echoes of the last half of Titanic in this, idek. Oh, and there's a tiny reference here to the scene in asocialconstruct's 'Negotiation' where Cain teaches Abel how to use a gun.

_Evacuate. Evacuate. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill._

The shrieking sirens clawed at Abel’s ears as he pushed his way through the choking smoke to get to Cain, the noise rendering coherent thought impossible.

They’d lost each other mere minutes ago, or at least that’s how it felt to Abel. The passage of time was hazy now. Abel couldn’t remember how long it had been since he and Cain had woken up alongside one another, Cain’s warm chest pressed to Abel’s back, the alarm buzzing over their heads as Cain stirred behind Abel.

Had it been an hour since they’d been boarded? Five?

Abel couldn’t think anymore.

The lower levels were eerily silent. Red lights flashed over all the doors, signalling the ship’s distress. The walls were charred and dented in the aftermath of battle. Abel felt sick as he stepped over the bodies of countless fighters—all fighters, the dead. Always fighters.

Abel couldn’t remember when he’d last seen a navigator; a single pale head. He’d refused to abandon ship with the rest of them when he’d had the chance, had refused to abandon Cain, and as far as Abel knew he was the only one still here. The only navigator left alive on a burning ship.

Abel held his gun out steady as he rounded a sharp corner, tried to breathe through the acrid smell of smoke and blood and death.

“Cain,” he called, voice weak and hoarse, the sound of it bouncing off the metal walls and back at him. No one answered. Surrounded by the quiet dead, Cain nowhere to be found, Abel had never felt so alone in his life.

The lights flickered and Abel heard the ship’s engines go dead.

“Cain!” Abel screamed, breaking into a run.

He was starting to truly panic now, dread curling its cold fingers round his heart and squeezing the hope out of him. If Cain was already dead, Abel thought, then they were both as good as. It couldn’t be one without the other, and Abel knew there was no way he'd make it out of here alone. Without Cain, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

There were two bodies at the end of the corridor: a fighter Abel didn’t recognize—though that could have been on account of all the blood—and an unmoving Colteron slouched against the wall, still in full battle dress, an opaque black helmet obscuring its face.

There was no blood on the body, no visible wounds. Abel couldn’t discern how it had died. He drew in a shaky breath, lifted his gun with a steady hand, and shot it in the head—the way Cain had taught him to—just to make sure it stayed down.

He stumbled over the bodies then, lungs heavy and aching in his chest, and screamed for Cain again. He heard thumping, uneven footsteps in the distance, the sound of one of the exits sliding open, and his heart pounded furiously behind his ribcage. Abel fell back against the wall, his whole body aching, and held his gun close to his chest, finger resting just over the trigger.

It was Cain. Abel heard him before he saw him—muttering and cursing under his breath in Russian as he staggered down the corridor—and Abel wanted to fall to his knees, cry with the sheer relief of seeing Cain walking and breathing again when he’d been so afraid Cain was dead; that the battle was over, the ship destroyed and her crew gone, Abel all alone and surrounded by bodies.

He dropped his gun, slid down the wall, and put his head between his knees. Cain was crouched down in front of him then, hands on Abel’s back, forehead pressed to Abel’s temple.

“Fuck— Abel, I thought I’d lost you,” Cain said low, and Abel did let out a relieved sob then, his hands finding Cain’s shoulders and pressing deep in his flesh, just to convince himself Cain was real, that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Cain leaned back to look at him and Abel did the same. Cain was hurt—crusted blood down the left side of his face and a darkening bruise under his eye; cuts all over his chest and arms; jacket gone and t-shirt ripped down the side, revealing a deep and jagged cut.

Abel put a hand to the back of Cain’s neck. Looked him in the eye. “How many?”

“Dead?”

Abel nodded.

“Everyone. The Colterons took off just after the rest of the navigators. Haven’t seen anyone alive since I left Deimos on the upper deck.” Something unfamiliar flickered across Cain’s face and he added, “But he’s probably dead now too.” He glanced away and clenched his teeth. “Stupid little  _shit_  should’ve just stuck with me, but no, he had to run off and be a fucking hero and—”

“Cain.”

Cain stopped, coming back to Abel again. A hard look fell over him. “We’ve got to get the fuck out of here before this place blows.”

Abel pressed his lips together and nodded again, but he was so weak now, the adrenaline slowly fading out of him, that he wasn’t sure how he was going to make it to the end of the corridor let alone the hangar bay. He’d only slow Cain down. Get them both killed.

Cain must have read his thoughts because he said, “You’re hurt.” He lifted Abel’s right arm to examine the break, causing Abel to wince, and scowled. “Why the  _fuck_  didn’t you just leave with the rest of them? You got a death wish or something?”

Abel trembled with the pain and tried not to show it in his face, was relieved when Cain finally let go of his arm. “I wasn’t leaving without you,” Abel breathed, and he didn't care if Cain thought him stupid, or too sentimental. “I-I couldn’t. Not without you.”

Cain didn’t say anything, just looked angrier. He grabbed the back of Abel’s head and kissed him hard instead of yelling at him, and all Abel could taste between them was blood, his own and Cain’s.

Cain stood and hauled Abel up by the shirt, taking Abel’s good arm and dragging them both towards the nearest exit. The sirens were still blaring, that deceptively calm voice advising them to abandon ship, over and over, and Abel was so weak now, so tired, that he didn’t want to run anymore. Wasn’t sure he had it in him.

“You’ve gotta stay with me,” Cain panted, putting an arm around Abel’s waist and pulling Abel into him, half-carrying him now. “I know it hurts, but if we don’t get the fuck out of here we’re going to—”

There was a deafening blast behind them. Abel recognized the sound immediately as Colteron weaponry. His heart sank in his chest. They weren’t alone after all.

Cain growled, ripped the gun from the holster at his waist and shoved Abel to the ground. Abel tried to get up but collapsed again, broken arm giving out on him, and rolled onto his back instead, hands clamped over his ears and eyes squeezed shut as bullets and laser-beams flew through the air above him.

When the noise stopped, smoke beginning to clear, it was too late to do anything. Cain was on the floor beside him, a dark patch spreading out over the centre of his chest, and Abel couldn’t even scream.

He scrambled to him, ripped off his own shirt and pressed it to the wound on Cain’s chest, vision blurring as he shook his head and whispered, “No, no, no,” under his breath, over and over again. Cain caught at Abel’s wrist, chest jerking as he tried to draw in breath. He looked up at Abel like he was terrified, all the color draining from his face, and Abel let out a raw sob that echoed all around them.

“Cain… Cain _please_ , just—just hang on…”

But he couldn't. Cain’s hand fell back to the floor, his head lolling to one side, eyes glassy now. He was gone. Abel was alone again and the battle was over. They'd lost.

Abel lay against Cain’s side then and didn’t cry, just curled his fingers in Cain’s shirt and closed his eyes, breathing in Cain’s scent while he waited to be shot too.

Colterons left no survivors, and sure enough, within a few moments a dark shadow fell over them. Abel looked up at the Colteron’s dark and looming figure, saw himself and Cain in the reflective surface of the Colteron’s helmet, and glared straight at it—was determined to face death like a man, like Cain had.

The Colteron lifted its gun, aiming squarely for Abel’s head, when something unseen jumped up on its back and caused it to stagger backwards, its weapon falling to the floor with a loud clatter.

Deimos.

Abel knew it was him the second he saw the flash of a blade at the Colteron’s throat. Deimos didn’t waste time. He snapped the Colteron’s head back and pushed the knife beneath the base of the helmet, slitting the Colteron’s throat in one clean swipe. A shower of black blood poured down its armor, spraying Deimos’ boots, and the Colteron fell to its knees, a gurgling noise emanating from behind its helmet as it struggled for breath.

Deimos pushed a boot into its back and kicked it to the floor, standing there for a moment with his bloodied knife held at his side, breathing hard. He looked less injured than Abel and Cain had, though Abel couldn’t imagine how Deimos had managed to get this far and still look so pulled together—just one scratch on his cheek and a tear in the right arm of his jacket.

But his composure didn’t last long. His face twisted at the sight of Cain and he fell to his knees beside him, shoving Abel’s shirt off Cain’s chest and touching fingers to the wound on his chest. He looked across at Abel, silently begging answers, and Abel shook his head at him. Couldn’t even speak.

Deimos didn’t want to believe it. He pressed two fingers over the pulse-point at Cain’s throat. Did the same thing to the one at Cain’s wrist. He pressed his ear to Cain’s chest as if he expected to hear him breathing, and when he couldn’t he sat back, looking so distraught it was if the world was crashing down around him. It was.

Abel didn’t know what to say to him. There was nothing to say. Everything was gone.

Deimos lay against Cain’s chest a while, eyes open and unblinking as he curled his shaking fingers in Cain’s shirt. He didn’t cry. There was blood all over him now, on his face and hands, and Abel wondered whether he looked the same—empty and ravaged and broken.

Abel sat with his knees to his chest, didn’t know how much time had passed when Deimos finally sat up. He looked down at Cain one last time, wiping his bloody face with the back of his hand, and got to his feet.

“Get up.”

Abel didn't move.

“Get _up_! You think he’d want you to die like this?”

The ship shuddered around them and the lights flickered off and on again. Abel wondered whether the Colterons had set the Sleipnir to auto-destruct before he decided he didn’t care.

Deimos hauled Abel up by the arms, surprisingly strong for someone his size, and shoved Abel ahead of him, shouting at him to move, to go, to fucking _run_.

Abel didn’t look back at Cain. He gathered the last of his strength and allowed Deimos to push him toward the exit as the ship shook and debris showered down around them.


	2. Adrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deimos and Abel find solace in each other after Cain's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy/sadfeels follow-up for Kurenai_Tenka. <3

Deimos holds his hand as they make their way up the three flights of stairs to the new apartment. Abel can hear the faint sound of a woman crying coming from somewhere inside the building; the stairwell smells like piss, and on the third landing there’s a large puddle of congealed muck that looks suspiciously like vomit. Abel cringes and wrinkles his nose, bunching his hand in the back of Deimos’ jacket and sticking close to him until they find their door.

It’s dark and musty inside, the filthy carpet spitting up puffs of dust as they make their way down the narrow hall and into the tiny living room. The orange bulb that lights the room doesn’t have a shade, and Abel jumps and lets out an undignified squeak when he spots a large cockroach crawling up the off-white wall.

“I’ll find you something better,” Deimos promises after he kills it. He doesn’t look at Abel, just stands there with that vacant look on his face again, the same one he’s been wearing since Cain died.  

Abel takes a deep breath and forces a smile. “I like it here; it’s the best place we’ve looked at. And I’m sure it’ll be great once we’ve cleaned the place up a bit,” he finishes brightly, though he knows he mustn’t look very convincing.

Deimos frowns, obviously skeptical.

Abel chews on his lip and takes Deimos’ hand in both of his, pulling Deimos towards him. “Deimos?” He knows Deimos’ name but doesn’t use it, the same way Deimos never uses Abel’s. They’re not the people they once were, and keeping their code names is easier now that they’ve both left their old lives behind.

“If you think I can’t handle this, you’re wrong,” Abel says gently. He leans forward, brushing his lips across Deimos’ cheek, the most he’s allowed, and leads Deimos into the small kitchen, sitting him down at the rickety old table before making him a drink and something to eat. After everything Deimos has done for him—saving his life; looking out for him and keeping him safe; letting Abel follow him home like some lost puppy—it’s the least Abel can do.

They sleep curled together on the thin and lumpy mattress that first night, huddled beneath a flimsy blanket, Abel’s head pressed to Deimos’ chest so that he can feel the gentle rise and fall of it as he breathes; hear the steady thud of his heartbeat. He's still afraid of dying. Needs these things to reassure himself they’re both still alive.

 

* * *

Apart from the power constantly cutting out, the new apartment isn’t so bad after Abel’s cleaned it up a bit—hung new curtains, called an exterminator to get rid of the cockroaches and termites, and tossed out most of the old furniture.

While Deimos is gone during the day Abel rewires the mainframe so that they’ve got reliable hot water, heating and lighting again. He’s dejected when the task is complete; he’s missed working with his hands. The days are long and dull when he’s alone, and sometimes Abel wishes he was working again too. But he’s found that it's difficult to get a job here in the colonies, even as a kitchen-hand, when you can’t speak the language of the people around you.

Deimos tries to make things easier on him in this regard. Whenever there's someone else around—one of the men he’s always leaving with, or the sweet old woman across the hall who likes to cook and make a fuss over them both—he makes sure they talk in English in front of Abel, refuses to speak unless they acquiesce.

They nearly always do. Deimos is small but everyone seems afraid of him. When Abel remembers how fierce Deimos was during battle, the way he'd cut that Colteron's throat and saved Abel’s life, he isn't so surprised. Deimos is more formidable than he looks.

Often Abel wonders what it is that Deimos does when he leaves for the day—Deimos won’t say a word about it, but sometimes he comes home with blood on his clothes, bruises on his face, though he won't ever discuss how they got there. Abel worries for him all the time, is terrified of something happening to him and being left alone again, but he won’t push Deimos for answers. They have enough money, they have each other, and Abel’s too afraid of upsetting the tenuous balance of what they have right now.

He isn’t sure what’s holding them together other than Cain’s memory, whether it’s Deimos’ guilt or twisted sense of duty to him, or even how little it will take for Deimos to leave; to decide Abel’s weak, a burden, and that it’s time for them both to move on. And so Abel minds his business; keeps his mouth shut and tries to be everything he thinks Deimos wants him to be.

* * *

Deimos doesn’t want a lover, though; at least not in Abel. Abel swiftly figures that out the first time he tries to get Deimos to fuck him in bed.

It’s late; they’re both tipsy on the vine vodka Deimos had ordered them at the restaurant across the street, and Abel reasons it’s as good a time as any to make a move—his mind’s too fuzzy for him to feel guilty at the thought of sleeping with someone other than Cain, and maybe tonight will be the night Deimos lets him take it further than just a kiss.

He's hopeful despite his misgivings. He doesn’t want anyone else but Deimos and he hasn’t since Cain. They're together in everything else; now he wants them to be together in every way.

He curls around Deimos’ warm body in the dark, twisting their legs together, squeezing Deimos’ small frame too tightly in his arms as he kisses the back of his neck, the soft skin along his jaw. He brushes his fingertips over the taut skin of Deimos’ belly, drifting lower and lower just to see what he’ll get away with, until Deimos pushes his hand away and sits up. He doesn’t say anything—never says anything—just takes his pillow and goes out to sleep on the couch.

He doesn’t come back to their bed for the next three nights.

* * *

Abel’s so guilty about it that he can’t sleep, not even during the day, when it’s still light out and Deimos is gone.

He starts to panic one night when Deimos leaves with one of the men he works with—the tall one who always dresses in black, who can’t speak English and looks like a less-handsome version of Cain—because he isn’t sure working is all they’ve got in mind.

Abel doesn’t like the way the man touches the small of Deimos’ back as they’re leaving, and he definitely doesn’t like the way Deimos fails to shy away from this man’s touch the way he does from Abel’s.  

Abel doesn’t want to think about what they’re doing together. He’s already got a fair enough idea. He bites his fingernails down to the quick while he cooks dinner, even though it probably won’t get eaten. He paces the living room after that, wringing his hands, until he can’t stand it anymore.

He rushes to the bedroom and pulls down his suitcase, throws open all the drawers and pulls out his clothes, tossing them into the suitcase without bothering to fold anything.

“What are you doing?”

Abel nearly jumps out of his skin. Deimos stands in the doorway now, looking at the drawers and the open suitcase and back at Abel.

Abel thinks he knows Deimos well enough by now to see that he’s troubled by what he's seeing. There’s no visible change in his expression, which always stays the same no matter what mood he’s in, but rather something in his eyes. His eyes have always been too old for his young face. Sometimes Abel thinks they can see right through him.

“I think I should go,” Abel forces out, clutching one of his sweaters to his chest like it might protect him from what’s coming.

“Go where?” Deimos asks. He stays right where he is.

“Back home, someplace new, I don’t know. Does it matter? I just… I don’t want to hold you back anymore, and that’s all I’m doing. You don’t need to take care of me. He wouldn’t have expected you to, Deimos. He knew I could take care of myself. He… He would have _made_ me take care of myself.” Abel has to stop talking now, the rising lump in his throat making it too painful to keep going.

Deimos steps fully into the room and Abel sees he’s got a bunch of flowers in his right hand. They’re bright blue and almost wilted. They only confuse Abel when he sees them.

“What are they for?” he demands before he can stop himself.

Deimos shrugs. “Isn’t this what you’re supposed to do when you’ve fucked something up?” He looks inordinately uncomfortable now, and Abel doesn’t know what to say to him.

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” he says with a weary sigh, sitting down slowly on the edge of the bed and folding his hands in his lap.

Deimos sits down beside him, setting the flowers down between them. They’re very pretty—flowers Abel’s never seen before; a rich blue dotted with white crescents, perhaps native to the colony—and Abel can’t quite believe they’re for him. No one has ever given him flowers before.

“Must have fucked something up if you want to leave,” Deimos mumbles after a while.

“It wasn’t you who fucked up,” Abel mutters, staring down at his hands. “I shouldn’t have pushed you the other night; that wasn’t fair.” He brings a hand to his mouth and starts to chew his nails again. Deimos watches him intently. “It made me realize something though,” Abel adds, glancing at Deimos sidelong.

“What's that?”

“I’m only standing in the way of you finding somebody else.”

Deimos doesn’t say anything to that, just gets up to stand in front of him, pushes Abel’s hand away from his mouth and mutters, “Don’t do that.” He gently takes Abel’s wrists, pulling him up to his feet, and Abel faces him as bravely as he can.

“I don’t want somebody else,” Deimos answers. He looks over Abel’s shoulder at the suitcase and back at Abel. “Put your things away.”

“But—”

“You’re not leaving,” Deimos says firmly, before Abel can utter another word. “It’s you and me now, Abel.” He puts a warm hand to Abel’s cheek. “I’ve lost everything but you. What am I supposed to do without you?”

Abel looks away then, because his eyes are stinging and his throat hurts, until Deimos takes his face in both his hands and kisses him once, gently; just enough to leave Abel needy, and guilty for always wanting more.

Deimos lets himself be held for a few moments after that before he pulls back again and takes Abel by the wrist, tugging him from the room. “Come on,” he says gently, “I’m taking you out to eat; you’re still too fucking skinny.”

Abel lets out a short burst of laughter and wipes his face with his sleeve, following Deimos from the room, his suitcase and clothes forgotten.


End file.
